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“For shit,” he bit off, going directly to the drinks cabinet and pouring himself a stiff whisky, not bothering with ice.
He came to me with glass in hand, folded onto the couch beside me and immediately turned to his cigarettes.
“Since nothing is going to change, except a title, I don’t know how it could go poorly,” I noted carefully.
He lit his smoke, blew out a plume, sucked back some whisky even though it was barely noon, and said, “I didn’t say things weren’t going to change.”
“Uh-oh,” I mumbled.
He turned to me. “As this event began to loom, I pulled the covenants and read them. So did my solicitor. I had ideas. Obviously, I would carry them out after Mum and Dad were no longer with us, but I had ideas.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like the days of house parties and hundreds of people attending a ball are long gone. Mum entertains. Small dinner parties. Huge bashes for all our birthdays. Her annual Christmas party. They host a Bonfire Night out on the front lawn every November for the village. And she and Dad throw a massive event every five years for their wedding anniversary.”
That would seem sweet if they were a happily married couple who were truly celebrating their love through the years.
As it was, it was more than a little sad that Lady Jane would go through that motion.
“Okay,” I prompted when Ian said no more.
“But I’m sure you’ve noticed on the first two floors alone, three wings of eight go entirely unused. The whole second floor is constantly deserted. It’s a waste.”
I couldn’t disagree.
“So, I thought a veteran’s convalescent home,” he continued. “Or an orphanage. Or a psych hospital. There aren’t enough good mental healthcare facilities in this country.”
I was staggered.
And more than a little alarmed.
“You’re going to turn Duncroft into…something not a home?”
“Daphne, for the most part, only two people live here. The trust that runs this place is embarrassingly enormous. It’d have to be to use the interest to run this house and provide for the staff and family in it. But the years of something like Duncroft existing for the purpose it was built, to lord, quite literally, over the location where it was erected, are long past. This is a relic of another time. But it could be useful.”
I couldn’t disagree about that either, even though it gave me a funny feeling it wasn’t mine to have.
And this explained how things went awry with his dad.
“I can imagine your father definitely wasn’t thrilled with that news.”
“I didn’t share it. The covenants are ironclad. As long as the Alcott trust can support this house, it’s to be used only as the home of the earl. It cannot be deeded or gifted, not even to someone inside the family, should I, say, want to give it to Danny. It can be used for no commercial enterprise. It is for the earl’s personal use only.”
“Okay,” I repeated slowly.
“So I had another idea. And that is what Dad got pissed as shit about.”
“What is that?”
“I told him, he and Mum are secure. I had no plans to take over, move home from London, change anything, even their allowances, unless inflation or the market forces me to. That went over fine. He seemed relieved.”
He took a drag of his cigarette, another sip of whisky, but didn’t immediately return to talking.
So I pushed, “And?”
“Then I told him Duncroft was a part of the British legacy. That it wasn’t just the earls who made it great. The people who built it, the people who staffed it and took care of it, the things collected along the way that are in it, were a testimony to this country. And as such, it should be enjoyed. And although I assured him it wouldn’t be through the National Trust or English Heritage, both of which he respects, in a manner, since they safeguard and maintain some of Britain’s greatest structural, historical and natural locations, he still looks down on those who own their properties and allow visitors through those organizations. Nevertheless, I told him I’m opening the house for two weekends a month to ticketed tours to show people this legacy.”
Another sip and puff and he continued.
